Kahe Hot Adheer #16

Hasimat Navalani! A blind person cannot even see darkness—cannot possibly see it. Even to see darkness, eyes are needed. Eyes are needed to see anything at all, even darkness.

Ordinarily people think a blind man must be living in darkness. Their notion is fundamentally wrong. What does a blind person know of darkness? You know darkness because you have eyes. When you close your eyes, darkness appears. But the blind do not see it.

If darkness is seen, one thing is certain: you have eyes. And that is a great fortune! If darkness is visible, light will also become visible, because light is the other aspect of darkness. As life is the other aspect of death, so too darkness and light are two sides of the same coin—on this side darkness, on that side light. There is no intrinsic difference between light and darkness; the difference is relative. We call a state of less light “darkness,” and a state of less darkness “light.” The difference is of degree, not of nature.

That is why those with keen eyes—like owls—can see even at night. The owl’s eyes find light even within the night’s darkness. And if the eyes are weak, where is the light even in daytime! Even in the daylight there is only darkness.

So the first fact to understand is this: instead of worrying about darkness, count yourself fortunate that you have eyes—at least you see!

But this is humankind’s basic mistake—he counts thorns, not flowers. He weighs misfortunes, not blessings. Life has given us so much from the divine, yet we never tally it. We stay surrounded by a sense of lack. We have become habituated to seeing only what is missing.

Navalani, first drop this fundamental error. First, rejoice that you can see—even if it is darkness; at least you have eyes; you are not blind. And as soon as this revolution happens within you—when your gaze moves from the darkness back to the eyes—light begins. Dawn begins. The very moment you shift your vision from the negative to the affirmative, morning starts to break; then morning is not far. And remember this too: when the night’s darkness is deepest, the dawn is very near. Just before morning, the dark grows very dense. Before departing, darkness gathers itself—packs its baggage—so it becomes thick.

So the second thing I want to tell you: fortunate are you that the darkness feels dense. In the womb of dense darkness the dawn is hidden; daybreak is concealed.

You say: “I am utterly ignorant.”

Good sign. Pedantry is a dangerous sign. “I know”—that very knowing is the greatest obstacle in knowing the divine. “I don’t know”—that is the door. Whoever has recognized, “I am ignorant,” has taken the first and most significant step toward knowledge. That one step is so important that the rest of the journey is hardly as important. In that one step, almost the whole journey is covered.

There are only two steps between you and God: first, “I am ignorant”; second, “I am not.” That’s all—just these two steps, and the temple arrives. There is no third step.

Let me repeat: the first step is “I am ignorant.” In the very acceptance of this, the life-breath of the ego begins to ebb. For the ego is a claimant. The ego says: “I—and ignorant? The whole world may be ignorant; I am knowledgeable! I—and weak? I am strong. I am this! I am that!” We keep piling ornaments on the “I”—so much wealth, so much rank, so much renunciation, so much knowledge—“all mine!” The more you spread the “mine,” the more the “I” becomes dense. And the denser the “I,” the farther you are from God. The density of “I” is the distance from God. As the “I” begins to melt—dissolve—you start moving closer to God. When the “I” is no more, in that instant only God is—no one else.

And both cannot exist together. “I” and God cannot coexist. As long as the “I” is, you may repeat “Rama, Krishna, Allah” a million times—nothing will happen. As long as you are, there is no room inside for Rama to enter. You are so full of “I” that where is the space? To host Rama, you need inner sky, vast emptiness! Upon your throne you yourself are seated. Even if God arrives, where will you seat him? And if he does come, how will you recognize him? Even if God stands at the door, your ego will not let you recognize him.

Your ego shows you only that which inflates the ego. Seeing God would dissolve the ego; therefore the ego will not let you see God. The ego itself discovered all the arguments against God. The ego itself declared that God is not.

As man’s ego has increased—and in this century it has increased tremendously!—there are reasons: the advance of science, new technologies, flying in the sky, reaching the moon, scaling Everest. Man has begun to feel, “I am everything! I can do everything! I need no prayer, no worship, no adoration. My intellect, my brainpower, my science, my enterprise will solve all. What was unknown yesterday is known today; what is unknown today will be known tomorrow.” Ego has greatly expanded in this century, and as the ego has grown, God has receded. Then we ask, “Where is God?”

Because of you, God does not appear; and you are the one asking where God is! As if someone had tied blindfolds and asked, “Where is the sun?” Or plugged his ears and asked, “Where is music?” Or killed his own heart and asked, “What is love? What is prayer?” All sensitivity has become numb. Ego sits on your chest like a stone. You no longer experience—you only think.

People now only think and analyze even about love—“What is love?”—as if it were a subject for speculation, not a living experience. Then God becomes very far away, very, very far. And because of you! You are responsible.

Navalani, it is auspicious that you say, “I am utterly ignorant!”

This is the first sign of a seeker. This is the beginning of sannyas. You have stepped into the Ganges.

The second step is “I am not.” And if “I am ignorant” is realized, the second step becomes easy. If the ignorant one dissolves, what is lost? But if you call yourself learned, a pundit—then you will not dissolve. How will you? How will you drop so much scholarship? With such difficulty you amassed it—the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita, the Quran, the Bible, the Guru Granth, the Dhammapada—memorized with so much toil, your life poured into them; now how will you let it all go? And your stiffness is in all that. People bow to you. They marvel at your miracles. They revere your intellect. How will you renounce it?

If there is the pride of knowledge, the ego cannot be dropped. That is why I have heard that sometimes sinners have reached God; but that a pundit reached—I have never heard. Pundits cannot reach. A sinner is ready to bend. His very sin says to him, “By what strength can I stand?” He is ready to pray on his knees. Tears are always ready to flow from his eyes. His eyes can become monsoon at any time. His heart is already weeping.

Remember: no one is happy in sin. Not even the greatest sinner. Call the greatest sinner a sinner and he will be ready to quarrel. He too does not accept, “I am a sinner.” A thief does not accept he is a thief. A murderer does not accept he is a murderer. A dishonest man does not accept he is dishonest. The dishonest man also tries to prove he is honest. The liar puts all his might into proving “I am truthful.”

See the pull of truth! See the magnetic power of integrity! See the nobility of virtue! Even the sinner, at least, puts on the cloak of virtue. If virtue is not in the heart, at least he drapes it outwardly. Yet even in this outward draping he is bowing to virtue. He is admitting: there is a pain within; I too wished virtue were inside as well—then what joy it would be—virtue within, virtue without! If it is not within, at least let me wear the Ram-name blanket outside. It feels good when others see me as virtuous. But to yourself you will keep appearing a sinner; hence the sting remains within, like a dagger in the chest—a wound, a constant twinge. You too will wish that inwardly there be the same joy of virtue, the same heaven, the same fragrance.

The sinner also wants to be free of sin—how to be free, when to be free! But the “knower” does not want to be free of his knowledge. Therefore I say: a sinner can reach God, because what strength does his “I” have? His chains are of iron—he can break them. But the scholar, the renunciate, the vow-taker, the charitable—how will he break his chains! His chains are not of iron, they are of gold. His chains are studded with diamonds and jewels. They are inlaid with pearls. They are very precious. He does not feel them as chains; he feels them as ornaments. And he has earned them with great effort. Call them chains and he feels hurt. Tell a renunciate, “Renunciation is a chain,” and he will be ready to fight. Tell a yogi, “Yoga is a chain,” and he will never forgive you all his life. Tell a donor, “Charity is a chain,” and he will take revenge; he will say, “You have insulted me.”

The pundit cannot drop it; the ascetic cannot drop the ego.

Navalani, this awareness—“I am utterly ignorant”—is a great thing. It is an auspicious moment. In such a blessed hour, do not worry. Do not be troubled by it. Rejoice in it.

You say: “I am utterly ignorant! Whenever I close my eyes, great darkness appears.”

In the beginning it will be so. Just as at high noon, after traveling in the blazing sun, you come home and at once the house appears dark. Your eyes are filled with the glare outside. Immediately after bright light, when you enter darkness or lesser light, nothing is visible. You sit down, rest for half an hour, then everything begins to appear. After all, the eyes must be given a little time. If you come straight out of the midday sun, enter the house, see darkness, and think, “I am finished—it seems I have gone blind!”

Do not decide so quickly.

When the eye is in bright light the pupil contracts, because too much light cannot be allowed in. The eyes are automatic. The pupil becomes small. After coming from sunlight, look in the mirror—your pupil will appear tiny. Like a camera’s lens: in bright light, the shutter must remain open only a little; otherwise too much light will enter and the film will be spoiled. In low light the shutter must stay open longer for the picture to register. In sunlight the eye’s lens contracts; there is no need to let all that glare inside. In darkness the lens must open; the pupil dilates. Only then can you see. Therefore when you come at once from sun into less light, the eye needs a little time; gradually the pupil—which had become small in the sun—expands again. Then you can see even in the dark.

Until now, as far as the spiritual eye is concerned, you have never gone within; for lifetimes you have wandered outside—in the outer glare. Your inner eye has grown almost inert. It has forgotten the art of looking within. As if someone had lived only in sunlight for years, and one day is brought into a dark place: he will see profound darkness. Perhaps he will need considerable time before his eyes can again see in the dark. That is why meditation is needed. Sit each day; keep diving in. Darkness appears—be a witness to the darkness. Close your eyes and look at the darkness. Keep looking—nothing else to do—just keep looking. Only remember this much: I am the seer; I am not the darkness. If I were darkness, how could I see darkness? I am other than the darkness—thus I can see it. The seer is not the seen. The seen is different from the seer. This darkness surrounds on all sides—fine, let it be—but I am separate; I am the one who sees.

Keep watching. Slowly, gradually, the old habit of lifetimes will break and your soul’s eyes will become capable of looking within. The day they become capable, light will begin to dawn. First there will be the first glow—no sun yet, the night has left, the day has not arrived, but there is light. Then slowly the morning will blossom—the sunrise will happen. And one day you will know the noontide of your inner being—sun upon sun!

Kabir says: as if thousands of suns were to rise all at once!

When you read the words of seers like Kabir, you may be astonished. Perhaps that is why the question arises: “What a wretch I am, what a sinner, what an ignoramus—that whenever I look within I see only darkness. And Kabir says: thousands of suns rise together!” When will that be? Here not even a lamp is lit—what to say of a thousand suns! Not one lamp, not one sun!

It will arise. A little patience is needed. Patience is the ground of prayer. Why be hasty! Paltu says: do not become impatient.

For the thirsty
there is no shortage of wells,
nor of water in the wells.
Still,
who knows why
man stands thirsty.
Perhaps his
rope is short
and his bucket too large.
If there is thirst,
then at the well of knowledge
tie the bucket of worthiness
with the rope of faith,
and draw up what you desire.
If the rope does not remain short,
fulfillment is inevitable.

Call it faith, call it waiting—it is the same. The quality of faith is that it makes you capable of waiting. One who has faith can wait. One without faith feels time is being wasted: “What am I doing? One day I sit, close my eyes for a moment, find darkness within—I think, ‘I could have sat in the shop, gone to the market, earned something. What am I doing sitting here with eyes closed? Why spoil time? Nothing is going to happen this way.’” He will sit two or four times and then say, “All these saints and fakirs must be a different kind of people—not like us. That is why we call them incarnations. By calling them incarnations we mean, Brother, you are of another order. It may have happened to you; it is not going to happen to us. We are human. You came straight from God’s house. God’s grace is upon you, not upon us. It is written in your fate, not in ours.”

These are our devices. If you are a ‘good’ man, you console yourself like this. If not so ‘good,’ you say: “They are all mad—deranged. Their brains are damaged. Such a thing cannot be. If it does not happen to me, how can it happen to them? Either they are deceiving others or deceived themselves.”

But both views are wrong. The truth is: Buddha, Mahavira, Nanak, Kabir, Krishna, Christ, Muhammad, Moses are people just like you. Exactly like you. You have the same potential they had. The same seeds are in you as in them. The same flowers can blossom in you as blossomed in them. You too can be lord of the same suns as they became. That God is as available to you as he was to them. Only your rope is short. The well is there, it is full of water, but your rope of faith, of waiting, is too short. You cannot wait.

Modern man has lost certain things; among them is waiting. He has lost humility—because science has given him a reason. Science has given man the ego that says, “What can I not do! I will do everything—conquer storms, conquer clouds, turn deserts into gardens, float colonies in space—what can I not do!” Science has gifted man with ego. And science has also snatched waiting from your hands. It says: “Hurry! It can be done quickly!” Where it earlier took three days, science will get you there in three minutes. So science has taught haste, a rush. Now everyone is running. He who traveled by train now flies; he who traveled by bullock cart now goes by train. Speed! But if someone asks, “What will you do with the time you save?” it is very surprising. You did not go by train, you went by plane, you saved three days—now what? Now you play cards, lay out chess, watch cinema, radio, television. Or sit and gossip. And if someone asks, “What are you doing?” you reply, “Killing time.” First you save time, then you kill time—how wise!

There is an old Chinese tale. An old man, with his young son, was drawing water from a well. Both were harnessed like oxen, hauling water. A man from the city, a disciple of Confucius, saw them in the blazing afternoon, drenched in sweat—the old man perhaps older than seventy, his young son—and both yoked like bulls. He said to the old man, “It seems you do not know that new devices have been invented to draw water!”

The old man said, “Quiet! Completely quiet! First let my son leave. When he goes home to fetch food, I will speak to you.”

When the son went to get food, the Confucian said, “Why did you hush me?”

He replied, “Because of my son. If he hears, his life will be ruined. I know that new contrivances for drawing water have been invented. We need not be yoked like oxen.”

The Confucian said, “Then how foolish you are! Why toil? How much time you could save!”

The old man said, “That I also know—time would be saved. But I ask: what will I do with that time? I will quarrel, fight, gamble, drink—what will I do with that time? First bring me the answer—if time is saved, what shall I do with it? Ask your guru Confucius what I should do with the time; then come.”

When that man reached Confucius, Confucius said, “You need not trouble that old man. He is very wise. He spoke rightly. If man saves time, what will he do then? Then he will create mischief.”

That is why a poor man seems good to you—because he has no time to make mischief. There is no other virtue in poverty. The spirituality that appears in poverty is not in poverty itself; the real reason is only this: the poor have no time for mischief. Earn bread—or fight? Raise children—or gamble? Somehow patch the roof, bring clothes—or drink? They have no time. Not even time to dream. When they sleep at night, they sell their horses and sleep. When the rich sleep, they cannot sleep. They have so much time—they rest all day; now how will sleep come at night?

Science has given ego. Knowledge always gives ego. And knowledge has given conveniences so work can be done quickly. I am not an opponent of science—remember. Nor do I oppose machines. But if man has understanding… If I had met that old man, I would have said, “When time is saved, meditate. There is no compulsion to play chess. No compulsion to gamble. If time is saved, meditate. If time is saved, immerse yourself in prayer. If time is saved, dance—in gratitude and thankfulness to God.”

But in Confucius’ vision there was no place for God or prayer. Therefore Confucius could not answer the old man. I am not in favor of poverty, because the simplicity you see in the poor is hollow. I favor richness. I want you to be as prosperous as possible. But being rich does not mean you must drink alcohol. There are other wines! There is God’s wine. If you have time, drink that. Time should be there—but if you have the understanding to orient it rightly, there is no harm.

Science gave ego and stole your waiting. You have forgotten how to be patient. You no longer remember that patience has its own joy—that there is a delight in sitting silently and letting time pass.

Navalani, close your eyes whenever you have time. If darkness appears, let it be—look at it. Darkness too belongs to God. It too is one of God’s forms. It may be his back, but after all even God’s back is God’s back. Bow to him even from the back! Speak with him even from the back! He will hear. And that is why we have given him three faces—so that from wherever you speak, he will hear. Even if you speak from the back, he is in front.

Those three faces are worth pondering. Science says existence is three-dimensional. Existence has three dimensions. So it is a precious saying that God has three faces—one face in each dimension. Call from any dimension, your message will reach him. Think of the dark as his back—but it is his back. Do not stab it! Offer flowers of worship. Even flowers offered to the back will reach him. Do not be anxious. And if there is darkness, keep looking at it, keep looking. Simply by looking, darkness will become light. Simply by looking, your eye will gain such capacity, such keenness, such intensity, that your vision will become so luminous it will give light even to darkness.

And be happy that something is visible at all! Dance!

I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Sing his songs! Fill the darkness with his songs! And if you fill the darkness with his songs, lamps will begin to be lit—lamps of ghee.

I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.
Let me strike the shadja (sa) of love, O beloved;
let rishabh (re) become my cherished hymn.
Let notes alone be my support, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

With a tress-crown adorned in gandhar (ga),
let madhyam (ma) be made mediator for union,
let me fly to your door, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Let pancham (pa) be my cuckoo’s call,
dhaivat (dha) your radiant white smile,
let all dreams come true, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Let me pluck nishad (ni) and steal away sorrow,
let the confluence resound with the chorus of sargam,
this world is of sound, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

The dhin-gin, tin-gin of the mind’s mridang,
the kit-tak gad-gin of the chautaal,
I have counted days and lost, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Nadir, nadir, tom dir dir-dir,
setting the veena of the heart into trembling,
let me pluck the body’s strings, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Taathei, taathei, tat-tat thei-thei,
anklets bound, let me dance ever new,
now throw away worldly shame, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Dance, sing—even in darkness, even in great darkness. Your songs will become lamps! Your dance will draw light nearer! Keep patience and give thanks. By “thanks” I mean: dance. How else will you give thanks? It is not a matter of etiquette—“shukriya, thank you, dhanyavad.” Mere words won’t do.

Nadir, nadir, tom dir dir-dir,
setting the veena of the heart into trembling,
let me pluck the body’s strings, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Taathei, taathei, tat-tat thei-thei,
anklets bound, let me dance ever new,
now throw away worldly shame, beloved who dwells in my heart.
I will sing your songs, beloved, reveler in color and rasa.

Sing! Dance! Hum! Today there is darkness; tomorrow this very darkness will become light. Today is night; from this very night morning will be born. Only one thing is essential: that something is seen—you are a seer. And whoever is a seer—what is he lacking? He has already found the Master. The recognition has not yet happened that this is the Master, but the finding has begun.

And keep patience—lengthen the rope of faith. If it does not happen today, do not be frightened. If not tomorrow, do not be frightened. Even if it takes lifetimes, know that it happened quickly. It need not take lifetimes; it can happen now. The deeper your patience, the sooner it happens.

The third law of that great arithmetic—I have told you two; the third is this: whoever hurries, is delayed. Whoever holds infinite patience, infinite waiting—he attains very quickly. Such are the unique colors, unique ways, unique graces of that Mystery! One says, “Even if you come after eternity, I will sit and wait. There is no need for you to hurry. I am seated, seated, and will remain seated. Come when you will. I am bowed; you will find me bowed. Come in eternity; the lamp I have lit for you will remain lit for you. Whether you come or not, my door is open—and will remain open.” One who is ready to say this—to live this—can have the revolution happen this very moment, here and now!

Arun Satyarthi! The poet is certainly close to the rishi. Poet means: one who has begun to receive glimpses of the Divine. Rishi means: one who has become one with it. Poet means: one who has seen, from afar, the snow-white peaks of the Himalayas. Rishi means: one who has made his home upon those peaks. Between the poet and Truth there is a slight distance; the rishi is one with Truth.

But without being a poet no one becomes a rishi. Though not all poets become seers, all seers are bound to be poets. One can choose to cling to the glimpses, to revel in them. The poet is showered by a drizzle; the rishi is drenched in a cloudburst. The poet, you can say, lives by ponds and pools; the rishi is merged into the ocean—he becomes the ocean.

Yet a poet may mistake his pond for the ocean; then he will miss becoming a seer. Many poets have taken their pool to be the sea. So they think, “Why go anywhere? It seems I have found it.” As yet it is only a dream, not the Real. A reflection of Truth has fallen, a radiance, a shadow in a dream—but not Truth itself.

A poet once came to Zen master Rinzai and said, “I have read the poems you have written.”
Zen masters write haiku—tiny verses, wondrous! Nowhere else in the world does poetry take just that form. It demands years of Zen discipline first. A haiku is very small; on the surface it may seem to have no meaning at all. To open its meaning, meditation is needed; with the key of meditation its meaning unfolds.

That poet said, “I have read your haiku; I write better poems than these. And people call you a Buddha—awakened, supremely wise! But I write better poems than this.”

Rinzai said, “You may well write better poems.” It was a full-moon night; the two were sitting in Rinzai’s garden. Rinzai said, “Come, do something with me.” He led him to a small pond where the moon was reflected. The water was still; the moon looked very lovely. Rinzai said, “Do you see this moon?”

The poet said, “Yes, I see it. But where is the answer to my point in this?”

Rinzai said, “The answer is here. Your poems are like the moon in the pond.” And he tossed a pebble into the water. Ripples arose; the moon broke into pieces, its silver spread across the pond—but the moon was gone. “Now look up at the sky,” Rinzai said. “My utterances are like that moon. Throw a pebble at it if you can, and then you will know the difference. Your poems are reflections; my words are not. In your poems, you are present; in my words, I am absent.”

A poet can fill with ego—often does. He feels, “How sensitive I am! How tenderly I feel! What lovely songs I have woven!” But the rishi does not fill with ego; he becomes empty of ego—that is how he becomes a rishi.

Rabindranath had something of the seer in him. At the time of his death he said, “Though I have written six thousand songs—perhaps no one in the world has written so many—still I depart in pain, because what I wanted to sing I have not yet sung. And, O God, you are taking me at the wrong time! Only now did I feel my instrument had been tuned and the song was about to be born—and you begin to remove me from the world! In my whole life I have barely managed to tune the strings; the song has not yet been sung, the sitar has not yet truly played—the strings have only been tightened, the drum only tapped and readied—and you send me away!”

Those who read Tagore’s songs may say, “What is this! Such lovely songs! A Nobel Prize, worldwide honor!” But Tagore himself is not content. He says, “There is something I wished to sing that remains unsung. In the songs a few strains came, a few glimpses, but what I longed to bring through did not come.”

In Rabindranath there is a slight glimmer of the seer. I say glimmer—he is not yet a Buddha. He could have been; but he poured all his energy into song and left nothing for the inner journey. He busied himself creating beauty, but he did not undertake the discipline by which Beauty itself is realized.

Arun, you ask: the poet is close to the seer…

Certainly close. If the poet drops ego, he becomes a seer. If he drops the “I,” he becomes a seer. But for a poet to drop the “I” is very hard. In this world, for anyone who has a talent, dropping ego becomes difficult. Talent stiffens you: “I am a poet, therefore I am special, not just ordinary!” That stiffness becomes a barrier.

And another thing: out of your hundred “poets,” ninety-nine are not poets at all—let alone seers. Ninety-nine are merely rhymesters. I am not saying those rhymesters are close to the seers. Making rhymes is easy. If you know a little language, grammar, meter and prosody, you too can do doggerel. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of your “poets” are rhymesters. And the public can grasp doggerel; it cannot grasp poetry—because in poetry there is something subtle, something mysterious. Doggerel is neat and obvious. The one the crowd calls a poet is often not a poet at all—he is very far from poetry.

Go to a poetry convention and see: those who draw the loudest applause—if you have even a little taste for poetry you will be astonished: “For whom are they clapping?” And the ones who should be honored get hooted—because the crowd cannot understand. What is on the crowd’s level is what it understands—naturally. Speak at the level of the crowd and you will be understood. The moment someone begins to take heights, to fly toward the sky, the crowd is annoyed; stones are thrown at once.

A poet once returned home late at night, battered and bruised. His wife snapped, “Good Lord, it seems today again you…”
The poet cut in, “No, no—God’s own oath—I haven’t drunk at all today!”
The wife retorted, “Who said anything about drinking! I meant it seems you went to a poetry convention again.”

A great poet was invited to a poetry meet. When his turn came and he began to recite, the crowd at once started yelling, “Stop! Stop!” They banged and clapped and stomped to hush him up. But he, absorbed in his poem, utterly serene, perfectly unperturbed—as if nothing were happening—kept reading. Tears streamed from his eyes; his words had great depth. But who was there to grasp depth? Play a reed flute before a buffalo—it will only chew cud! What else can it do?

When things went too far, a burly, black giant of a man rose and pulled a long, gleaming knife from his pocket. His eyes burned like coals. Seeing those eyes, the poet’s very soul took flight; he stopped at once. The strongman said, “You scrawny rat! Keep reciting—don’t you be scared. But first tell me the name of that blasted fool who invited you to recite!”

How will the common crowd understand poetry? To understand poetry also needs sensitivity. So, Arun, those you take to be poets are not; most are rhymesters. What point is there for rhymesters to come here? And among the real poets, a pride arises: “We have already arrived—why go anywhere?” And if they do come here once in a while, they don’t come to listen to me; they come to ask me to listen to their poems: “I have come from far to recite a few poems to you.”

One who is looking at the moon—why should he bother about reflections in a pond? But they think the reflection they have seen in the pond is the moon. Hence the difficulty.

And you ask: you say meditation deepens sensitivity; then why are these poets and artists afraid?

Meditation certainly deepens sensitivity. So the ninety-nine percent rhymesters are afraid: if they meditate, their doggerel will stop—because meditation will show them in depth that what they have been doing is crows cawing, not poetry. And the one percent who are true poets are also afraid, because they will see that the moon they have been singing of till now is the pond’s moon, not the real moon in the sky. So they too fear meditation. Meditation brings many kinds of fears.

And you say, as you have heard, “It is surprising that such sensitive-hearted poets and artists, who have set out seeking satyam, shivam, sundaram, still hesitate to come here!”

No one has set out in search of satyam, nor of shivam, nor of sundaram. These are just words. By writing poetry this search does not happen. It is a long inner journey. It happens by refining the within. Truth is not outside somewhere for you to discover; Truth is within you, lying buried. You will have to dig there. And Truth itself is Beauty. Truth itself is Shivam (the auspicious, the Good, the divine). These are different names for one. This trinity—satyam, shivam, sundaram—are three faces of the same God. It is a trinity more beautiful than Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—satyam, shivam, sundaram. But poets talk about it. Talking is one thing; seeking is quite another.

A man wanted to marry a wife skilled in cooking; he was fed up with hotel food. After much searching he settled on a woman professor at a women’s college. She had a PhD in culinary science. He married her, delighted at his good fortune. On the very first day when it was time to cook, his wife said, “We will have to go to a hotel.” “Why?” he asked. She said, “I know how food should be cooked; I have never actually cooked. I can lecture on cooking, I can write a treatise. After all I wrote a PhD thesis—where was the time to cook!”

Knowing about cooking is one thing; cooking is another. It may even be that the one who cooks cannot explain how it is done; if you ask him to lecture, he may not manage; if you ask him to write, he may not manage. Cooking is another matter.

So do not fall into the mistake that because poets speak of satyam, shivam, sundaram and call themselves seekers of it, therefore they are seekers. No—they are only talking. Just talk. They have nothing to do with Truth, nor with Beauty, nor with Shivam. I know many poets closely. How will they seek Truth without meditation? No one has ever sought Truth without meditation. And one who has not known Truth—how will he know its other two aspects, Shivam and Sundaram?

It is the eye of meditation that sees the Truth within and the Beauty spread throughout the world without. It is the eye of meditation that perceives Truth within, Beauty without, and Shivam in the inter-relationships between beings. Truth is your inner experience. Beauty is the felt presence of the Divine hidden in creation. And Shivam is the grace, the benediction that flows in the relationships between person and person, human and animal, human and plant, human and stone.

What has any of this to do with rhymesters! Yes, one in a hundred may be a true poet; even he keeps thinking—and by thinking the delusion arises that he has known. People sit back, convinced they have arrived: “Now where is there to go?” Even if they were to meet Buddha, Mahavira, or Krishna, the urge would not be to learn anything; they have assumed they have attained what there is to attain. The most unfortunate person in the world is the one who is ill yet considers himself healthy; who is ignorant yet believes himself wise; who is indulgent yet thinks himself renunciate; worldly yet takes himself to be a sannyasin. For one who has assumed himself to be the opposite of what he is, the very possibility of transformation ends.

Fifteen years after marriage, Mrs. Chandulal gave birth to a beautiful girl. Everyone was overjoyed. On this happy occasion Mr. Chandulal threw a big party and invited all the city’s dignitaries. Great celebration! A friend, Dhabbuji, said to Mrs. Chandulal, “Sister-in-law, if only it had been a boy instead of a girl—what a marvel it would have been! Like adding fragrance to gold!”
Mrs. Chandulal said, “Be grateful, brother, that it is a girl at all. If I had relied on your friend Chandulal alone, even this girl wouldn’t have happened.”

And your poets are sitting relying on their poetry—neither satyam will happen, nor shivam, nor sundaram. Their direction is intellectual, not of the heart.

You say, “Poets are very sensitive.” It is said; it is assumed a poet should be sensitive. These are expectations, ideals; it is not how it is. Yes, at times there are moments in a poet’s life when he is sensitive; in those moments perhaps he catches a slight glimmer of the moon. But those moments come and go; and when they pass, the poet becomes even harder than ordinary people.

This is one of life’s secrets to understand: one who becomes very sensitive in rare moments, in order to regain balance once those moments pass, becomes very hard.

Life keeps balance. You will often see: the woman who loves you deeply will sometimes hate you deeply. One who always serves you will sometimes become furious. Psychologists even say: when fights between husband and wife stop, know that the relationship is over. The fights are evidence that love still flows.

It sounds upside-down, yet it is true. The quarrel proves that in certain fluid moments they are filled with love for each other; then when they remember, “Ah! What did we do! To whom did we show love!” a counter-move arises—revenge. Until they have “balanced” it, there is no rest. After being harsh in revenge, they regret, “Alas! Such misbehavior toward my own husband, my own wife!” Then love arises excessively again. This game goes on for life. It is a swing husbands and wives swing on. There are many such swings; all sorts of people are swinging.

Nagarjun has a poem: “Swing, Jawaharlal, swing!”
Jawaharlal was a sensitive man, very much a poet’s heart—and equally hard, equally prone to anger. Equally fluid. Let feeling arise and he was ready to do anything; let a small thing go wrong and he would flare up, losing all sobriety.

But it is not only Jawaharlal’s case; all “Jawaharlals” are swinging. From one extreme to the other—people are like the pendulum of a clock. Watch this pendulum moving within you and slowly reduce its arc, its sweep. Little by little, one day when your pendulum becomes still in the middle—when Jawaharlal no longer swings, when the swing comes to rest—in that stillness of mind the poet becomes a seer. In that stillness the mind is transcended.

And you ask, Arun: Are meditation and creation not possible together?

Only together are they truly possible. If they are not together, neither is authentic. If someone is “meditative” and there is no creativity in his life, know that his meditation is hollow—a pretense.

But do not take creativity in a narrow sense. Buddha wrote no poetry, carved no sculpture, painted no canvas. Yet whatever Buddha did was purely creative. He colored people’s souls! In rock-like people he revealed and polished the statue of God! He lit lamps of awareness in countless beings! Rising—creation. Sitting—creation. Whatever he touched, mud turned to gold. Creativity is not to be taken narrowly. The creativity of the Buddhas is subtle. They do not take hammer and chisel to stone; yet they too carry hammer and chisel—invisible ones—and sculpt statues of consciousness, not of clay but of awareness. They unveil God, the supreme Beauty—but only those who can see will see. They pluck the strings of the veena too—but it is the veena of your heart. Only those whose strings have been struck know it; only those who have drunk recognize the taste.

If meditation is true, creativity will certainly flower—because meditation connects you with God, and God is the Creator. Connected with the Creator, what remains except that you too become a creator! And those we ordinarily call creative cannot be truly creative without meditation; until then their “creativity” is mere tinkering.

What do the so-called creative people generally do? Take a bit from here, a bit from there—bricks from one place, stones from another—cobbling together an odds-and-ends hut. That cannot be called creation; there is nothing new in it, nothing fresh—only a patchwork.

Without meditation, whatever you make will be patchwork, not creation. And without creativity, what you call meditation will be sham—false. You may sit with eyes closed in postures—but it is only a cow-dung Ganesh, nothing within. Inside, the same world churns in the skull—the same turmoil, the same scramble, the same commerce of thoughts and desires.

Arun, meditation and creativity are two experiences of one Truth, two expressions of the same Reality.

Krishna Satyarthi! Do not think of tomorrow—today is enough. Drink today! Do not waste today in thoughts of tomorrow.

Jesus was walking with his disciples along a path. He said to them, Look—do you see the lilies blooming in the field? Do you see the beauty of these lilies? Do you know the secret of their beauty? Behold their glory! Even Emperor Solomon, arrayed in his most splendid garments, was not so beautiful. What is the secret of these lilies?
The disciples kept quiet. They did not even imagine it could be a spiritual question. They had never pondered the secret of lilies. Jesus himself answered: their secret is that they do not think about tomorrow. They live now, here. That is why they are so supremely beautiful.

Why is there such beauty in little children? It is the beauty of the lilies. Have you ever seen an ugly child? It is very hard to find one. All children look sweet. And not only human children—puppies, kittens, the young of any creature: look at a litter of pups—each one looks good, lovable; there is a certain grace in them all. But as they grow up, differences begin—whether in humans or in animals. Later, only a very few remain beautiful. Rarely do you meet someone truly beautiful—beauty not just of features but where the soul shines through. Why? Where do all those beautiful children go? They get entangled in tomorrow. And where worry arrives, remember, the funeral pyre is not far. Chinta (worry) is chita (the pyre).

There is an old story in the Panchatantra. In a village lived a young man. His “work” was only this: drink lots of milk, do dand-baithaks (traditional push-ups and squats), and lounge in Hanumanji’s temple. People loved him, because thanks to him the village had fame far and wide. There was no wrestler like him. He did nothing else—just drank milk, exercised, and kept company with Hanumanji. But the emperor was very annoyed with him. Whenever the emperor rode past the temple on his elephant, that youth would sometimes come out, grab the elephant’s tail, and the emperor would be stuck. The elephant could not move. Such was the youth’s strength!

Imagine it: the emperor on the elephant, the mahout beating and urging the elephant, “Move!”—and the youth holding the tail; the elephant doesn’t budge. A spectacle! A crowd gathers. Consider the emperor’s embarrassment: what a state—an elephant at my command, but of what use!

At last the emperor said to a fakir, We must find a way. I’m afraid to go out lest that youth appear. He disgraces my elephant and me; makes a mockery of us. The temple is in the middle of the market; there’s only one route—one must pass there. The youth has no occupation; he just sits in Hanumanji’s temple. I’ve grown so fearful I send word ahead to learn whether he’s there or has gone out. But he never goes anywhere—either he’s doing dand-baithaks or drinking milk—Hanumanji and he, a holy fellowship! What am I to do?

The fakir said, Don’t worry. Do one thing: have the youth called.

The youth was brought. The fakir said, Look, how long will you depend on others? If one day people stop feeding you, what will you do then?

The youth had never thought of that—“then”? There was never any “then.” He said, I’ve never thought of it.

The fakir said, Think—otherwise later you’ll be in trouble. Youth doesn’t last forever. Today it’s here, tomorrow it will be gone. Today people feed you because the village has prestige: “We have a wrestler like no other.” But you’ll grow old. Then what? Listen: the emperor is pleased with you, very pleased. He agrees to give you one rupee a day. In those days a silver rupee a month was enough; a rupee a day was a lot. But there’s a small job to do.

The youth said, A job! I don’t know how to do any work. I can do dand-baithaks, I can drink milk, and I can keep Hanumanji company. I don’t know any other work. I’m not educated—only the Hanuman Chalisa is memorized, I can’t even read it. What work will I do?

The fakir said, We’ll give you work you can do. Very simple. Every morning at six, extinguish the temple lamp; every evening at six, light it. For that you’ll get one rupee.

He said, That’s simple. I live at the temple anyway—at dusk I’ll light it at six, in the morning I’ll put it out at six—and a rupee a day. He agreed.

The emperor asked, How will this help? You’ve created a new headache—he’ll drink even more milk! And this is work?

The fakir said, Don’t be in a hurry. We have our ways. I’ll answer after a month. Meanwhile, don’t go out into the village for a month.

After a month the fakir said, Now ride out on your elephant.

The emperor set out. For a month the youth had been watching the road: the emperor hadn’t come! He himself enjoyed grabbing the tail and stopping the elephant. That day he grabbed the tail—and was dragged, badly dragged; how disgraceful! The mahout didn’t even have to whip the elephant—the elephant dragged the youth along.

The emperor asked the fakir, What did you do? I thought the opposite would happen!

The fakir said, I put him into worry. Now he’s haunted by one anxiety: Is it six yet or not? He keeps asking people again and again, Brother, what time is it? Is it six yet? He can’t sleep soundly at night; he wakes up two or three times—Is it six yet? I must put out the lamp. At dusk he has to light it exactly at six. His old ease is gone. I gave him worry. His ease is gone; his strength is gone.

Krishna Satyarthi, why worry about tomorrow! I am here—now. You are here—now. Drink the nectar! It is precisely from tomorrow that I’ve come to free you. And if even on my pretext you begin worrying about tomorrow, then the whole point is reversed. Yesterday is gone—gone. Tomorrow has not come. And it will never actually arrive; whatever arrives is always today. Live only in today.

You say, “Revered Daddaji’s infinite love showered upon me.”

That has become the past. Forget the past. If his love showered upon you, you have known one kind of bliss—receiving love. But you haven’t recognized the other bliss: how joyous he was in giving love! So now you give love in the same way. And I tell you—there is nothing in getting love; there is infinite joy in giving it! In getting love you are, after all, a beggar; in giving love you are an emperor.

You knew Revered Daddaji only for a few years; he gave me birth—I knew him my whole life. He had only one joy: to share! Whatever there is—share it! All the images of him that arise in me have one essence: share whatever is. Even if he had nothing, he was engaged in the effort to share. In sharing he found joy. Sharing and sharing, he attained buddhahood! How long will you go on only taking? Learn this one lesson.

You saw only one side of the event—that he loved you and you felt good. But you did not see the other, deeper side—how good he felt in giving love! And that is the real point. Give love, and you will find your joy multiplies infinitely.

Bail it out with both hands—that is the task of the noble!
Just as when a boat fills with water, a man bails with both hands—whatever you have, bail it out with both hands, share it. The more people you can share with, the more your joy will spread. The broader the circle of your love, the deeper will be the ocean of your bliss.

But do not get stuck in tomorrow. If you get stuck in tomorrow, you’ll be tangled in tears. What is gone is gone. Do not keep turning back.

You are not only looking back, you are also looking ahead. And the back and the ahead are linked—the past and the future are twins. The one who keeps looking back is the very one who keeps looking ahead. In this respect, our language is a wondrous language: we call the day that has passed kal, and the day that is coming also kal—because they are one and the same. In no other language of the world do both have the same name. So often I get into difficulties, because there’s no other language in which both have one name. Many times I have to decide whether “tomorrow” means tomorrow or yesterday; whether “yesterday” means yesterday or tomorrow!

We have the word kal for both; and both words come from kaal. Kaal means time; and kaal also means death! Our language is unique—it bears the imprint of the wise, the signature of the buddhas; some strand of their music keeps playing in it. There is no other language in which one word means both time and death—kaal. Why? Because time itself is death. The one who lives in time will die. The one who knows the timeless, the beyond-time—he has no death; he is amrit, the deathless, the eternal.

And kal comes from kaal. Ordinarily we think time has three aspects: yesterday, today, and tomorrow. No—time has only two aspects: the kal that has passed, and the kal that is coming. Today is not part of time. This very moment is not part of time. The moment that has passed is time; the moment that is coming is time. Time is the name of absence. What is—this is not time. What is—is God. What is—is beyond time.

So, Krishna Satyarthi, you are entangled in the kal that has passed—remembering Daddaji’s love. Now, whenever you come here, you will feel his absence. The past will grow heavier on you. And there is now no way to get him back. You can only be troubled. And from that trouble a new trouble is arising now.

You say that when I rise from discourse or darshan and go back, a pang arises—if the company of this Sadguru is lost, what then will become of us?

My brother, whatever you have to do—do it now! Do not bring in “will be.” Do today what you would leave for tomorrow. Do not leave it for tomorrow—when will you do it? If you leave it for tomorrow you will never do it, because tomorrow never comes; whenever it comes, it is today. And you have not cultivated doing in today; you keep postponing to tomorrow. So you will go on postponing. The one who says, “I will do it tomorrow”—better he say, “I will not do it”; at least there would be some truth. “I’ll do it tomorrow”—this is a lie; he hides himself in it; he suppresses the tendency not to do; he puts on a mask. Others may be deceived—and you yourself will be deceived.

In a moment the cataclysm can come—when will you do it then?
In a moment the dissolution can happen. One moment you are, the next you are not. Daddaji was here—then not here. Learn something from this. At half past three in the afternoon I went to see him—we spoke, sat together—and by evening he took his leave.

In a moment the cataclysm can come—when will you do it then?
Do not postpone to tomorrow. Even “today” is a big word; better still—“now.”

Do tomorrow’s work today, do today’s work now.
In a moment the cataclysm can come—when will you do it then!

But people are such fools, they even draw the wrong meanings from the finest sutras of life.

Mulla Nasruddin asked a psychologist, What shall I do? In my office people don’t work! Tell anyone and he says, “We’ll see tomorrow. We’ll do it—what’s the hurry?” Files keep piling up; no one works. I’ve collected the laziest lot. What shall I do?

The psychologist said, Hang this couplet on everyone’s desk:
Do tomorrow’s work today, do today’s work now.
In a moment the cataclysm can come—when will you do it then!

It appealed to Nasruddin. He said, Good. He had beautiful plaques made and hung in every room, before every worker, every employee, in big letters.

Three days later the psychologist phoned, How are things, Nasruddin?

Nasruddin said, I’m in the hospital. Please come. And don’t delay. In a moment the cataclysm can come—when will you come then! Come quickly; my body is full of fractures. What a marvelous formula you gave me!

The psychologist was shocked. He rushed over; Nasruddin was covered in bandages, plaster on his legs, arms, head. He asked, What happened? How did this catastrophe occur?

Nasruddin said, Thanks to your sutra! I can’t get up yet, otherwise I’d make you taste the fun... Because as soon as I hung those plaques, chaos broke loose. The treasurer absconded with the entire safe. He left a note: “I’d been thinking for years when to run off with the safe. The couplet you hung—well, I thought it’s true: in a moment the cataclysm can come—when will I do it then! So I’m off. Jai Ramji ki!”

And the manager ran away with my typist. He also left a note: “My eyes had been on your typist for a long time, but for fear of you I flirted secretly. But the couplet you hung—I thought it’s true; life is slipping away in daydreams. So now I’m going, and taking your typist along. We’ll live hidden somewhere and enjoy ourselves.”

And my gatekeeper barged in and started beating me. I asked, Brother, what are you doing? He broke my bones!

He said, I’d wanted to do this for so long—break your bones. But I kept thinking, we’ll see—after all, I have a family; there could be trouble, police, court. But when you hung that plaque, I said, he’s right.

The psychologist said, I’m very sorry. How could I know a sutra would have such a result! I won’t give it to anyone ever again. Forgive me. You must be in a lot of pain, hurting everywhere.

Nasruddin said, It only hurts when I laugh—otherwise it’s fine.

The psychologist asked, Why do you laugh?

He said, I laugh at what an amazing world this is! What I hung it for—and what happened! What incredible people! Sometimes the absurdity makes me laugh—behind the laughter there is pain; otherwise, when I lie still, it’s okay.

Krishna Satyarthi, think neither of the kal that has passed nor of the kal to come. In this moment I am; in this moment you are—deepen this meeting. Make this meeting complete, total.

The mind is a mad deer—
the world is a mirage.
It isn’t good, beloved,
to be attached to it!

To quench your thirst,
there are many ponds here;
it isn’t good, beloved,
to crave one special lake!

To neglect what is attainable
in the lust for the unattainable—
it isn’t good, beloved,
to wager like a gambler!

We keep staking what we have for that which we don’t have, or hasn’t happened. It isn’t a good wager!

To neglect what is attainable
in the lust for the unattainable—
it isn’t good, beloved,
to wager like a gambler!

But here, everyone is doing just that. Wake up! Get out of it! And don’t worry, “If I lose your company, what will happen?” Put all your energy into this: while the company is here, let something happen. What will happen if it is lost—if nothing happens while it is present? If, while together, you gain nothing, what will you lose when it is gone?

And if, while together, you do gain something—then the company will not be lost. This much is my assurance. If you listen to me, if you connect with me—and that can happen now, not tomorrow—then the companionship does not break.

Your companionship with Daddaji ended; mine with him has not. That’s why my eyes did not moisten. If there is no separation, why moisten the eyes? I bid him farewell with joy, because in the farewell he is not going anywhere. Here, nothing is truly erased.

But our companionship—where is it? That is why it breaks. Now you will be startled when I say: there is no companionship—therefore it breaks. If there is true companionship, it doesn’t break.

Create the companionship. And do not postpone it to tomorrow. This gamble can prove costly. Let the companionship happen—and there will be a revolution.

The petty bonds of the inert world
cannot bind me.
No storm or whirlwind
can block my way.

I am not snow
to melt beneath the sun’s fierce rays.
I am not the bee
to lose my path, bewitched by a bud.

I am not the lotus
to bloom only when the sun commands.
I am not the chatak bird
to drink only when Swati rains.

I am not the peacock or the cuckoo
to be coaxed by gathering clouds,
nor the moth
that any lamp can lure.

I, while not being, am not “not”;
I am a particle of the vastness of emptiness.
Today I have shattered
the chains of slavery!

And there are only two chains of slavery: two kals—the kal that has passed and the kal that is coming. These are the fetters upon you. Break these two. Then no one can stop you—neither tempest nor storm; neither gale nor whirlwind. Then you are enthroned in the Divine. And only when you are enthroned in the Divine does the company of a Sadguru have meaning; only then is sitting near a buddha truly worthwhile.

Krishna Satyarthi, drop kal, drop kaal. Dive into the interval that exists between two moments. That is the doorway to the Divine, to the Eternal, to the Ancient Everlasting. Esa dhammo sanantano!

That’s all for today.